


Speak to Me

by Jackdaws



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Memories, FC Barcelona, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22880926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackdaws/pseuds/Jackdaws
Summary: And he still loves Geri. Still, it hurts.
Relationships: Lionel Messi/Gerard Piqué, Lionel Messi/Luis Suárez
Comments: 19
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/gifts).

> Mainly set during Leo's brief goal drought and the recent tensions at the club.

_Memory fragment. Leo is thirteen_:

He is here earlier than the other boys each morning. He can’t be late. It’s only a short walk from the apartment, but he hurries inside the academy’s dressing room with an expression of relief. Empty, it still reeks of cleanliness. He undresses quickly and takes a deep, steadying breath. In the mirror his pale, stunted body is reflected as he crosses the tiled floor. He tries not to look. Whatever is there, barely a centimetre taller than the last time he was measured, is a parody of himself.

He doesn’t think they’ve twigged yet – the other boys. If he gets into the showers quickly, he can be finished before they arrive. Nobody else will see, or laugh, nor make unfavourable comparisons.

They’re going to build him up, so Barcelona’s specialists say; going to make him like a man. He’s tired of the pitying looks from doctors, football scouts and managerial staff. His body should be private, but it’s not. It’s prodded and injected and weighed. He hates it, but this is the cost his father talked about: if he wants to make it as a footballer he must do everything he’s told.

The water sluices down his back and gathers in the drain. He’s going to be a success here. Father is relying on it, and Mama expects a cheque. Leo knows he has the ambition and talent to spur him up through the ranks. Someday, somehow, he will lift trophies. He will grow. He will be wanted here.

There’s noise beyond the hiss of water, and he scrambles for a towel. He’s been too long, distracted by these thoughts, and now the team is here.

He can hear him – the loud one, Piqué – guffawing with the rest. He does his best to disappear whenever he’s around. Leo thinks he’s intimidating, cocky and rude. Quietly, swiftly, he must enter to get dressed. But in the corner where he left his clothes, the hook stands bare.

Much like he is.

Leo’s flustered and turning red. Perhaps he’s got it wrong and his belongings are elsewhere. He looks under the bench, but finds nothing, and then inside a locker – but that’s fruitless too. His hands are moving quicker, almost shaking in his search. He can hear the laughter growing louder all around him – and loudest of all: Piqué.

Leo won’t cry or shout. Not over this. But he’s embarrassed and half-naked. Cold, too. Why, oh why, has Piqué singled him out? The boy is twice his height. Strapping. Already the leader of this group.

Isolated in the middle of the dressing room, Leo starts to tremble. The air on his wet skin is a wicked torture.

And then, gently: ‘Here you go.’

His clothes, simply moved to another hook, reappear before him. Thank goodness, Leo thinks, and hugs them close.

‘Hey, hey,’ the voice says, and a warm hand finds his tiny shoulder. ‘It’s okay.’

Leo is astonished to discover it’s Piqué’s soothing touch.

‘Nobody’s going to hurt you.’

What a startling blue his eyes are.

‘Hey, little guy.’

Leo’s face is stained pink.

‘Little guy, where are you from?’

_The present day_:

Leo sits leadenly, like a fighter who’s been defeated, on a small red stool with his number emblazoned on its side. His eyes seem heavy and unfocussed; in his mind he’s miles away and barely flinches as his phone rings. The distinct cumbia beat runs on a continuous loop from somewhere within the confines of the dressing room. Before he visited the toilet, where the pallor of his features showed distinctly in the mirror, it was right here in his bag. With a blank face and several slow but deliberate movements, he briefly checks to see if anything else was taken.

This would be funny, he thinks as the ringtone marches on, if he wasn’t waiting for a call.

When he gets to his feet – unhurriedly, with no betrayal of emotion – the tune seems louder. Closer, he thinks, warmer. He turns his head a few degrees left: it emanates from somewhere near Marc. He snatches up an isotonic drink and steals a furtive look. A few faces in the room look ready to crack out into smirks.

Leo has not heard from Luis all week – what if it’s him? And then there’s his father, on whom he relies for all manner of things; he might need to get in touch. It’s been that kind of week, he acknowledges with a sigh – perhaps it will be that kind of year.

He is not happy: this much is true. That he could leave this very summer (once such an unpalatable, unconscionable idea) has resurfaced as a rumour. It is in his contract he could do so, if he chooses; a little caveat he and his father proposed to give him leverage. Yet even with Barcelona’s vast spectrum of problems – political and practical – it is a threat he does not want to execute. This club and this country is his home now; it is etched upon him as indelibly as his tattoos.

He has known happiness here, and love. _Known_: something twists inside him, knife-like, at these thoughts.

There is only the low, humdrum noise of preparation around him now. The kit man goes back and forth with towels and bibs; someone wheels a medical bed aside; a laundry trolley is set in place to receive its quota of grass stained garments for the day. The cleaners have already done their round, but now with so many bodies occupying this space, the distant scent of chemicals mingles unhappily with a menagerie of powerful colognes.

There is a strained feeling behind the lack of conversation, until Leo’s phone starts up again to stir some laughter. This time his jaw clenches perceptibly.

A phone is such a private thing. An album of photos. A repository of long-forgotten texts. He has a little group where he, Luis and Ney keep in touch. Yesterday an aunt from Argentina sent him photos of a mural which was painted of him in, naturally, the glowing colours of _La Albiceleste_.

The jingle is grating, until he can sustain his show of indifference no longer, and demands: ‘Come on, where is it?’

Marc holds out his hands and shrugs.

He moves quickly across the floor and starts to throw things about, like a lover who’s been cheated casting out his partner’s clothes. The tune is louder, but it’s not coming from down here. He stops and reconsiders. Above, near a light-fitting, where they know he can’t reach – he thinks it’s there.

This stunt reeks of Geri.

Better to let this slide than get riled up. What he thinks Geri wants, expects, is to see him stab the ceiling with a mop handle in despair to set it free. He will not lower himself to such a display. Later, when the others disperse, he will fetch someone with a stepladder to help.

He returns to his seat and grimly contemplates the workout ahead. Without Luis here it’s strange. If there is conversation around him, he is not minded to join in, but sips his _mate_ and stares absently. He is in a cage of his own making, locked up with his own thoughts; it happens whenever he’s lost a game, or things do not go swimmingly, or the press begin to hound him. In this cage, exhausted by expectations and confronted by his own apparent failures, he cannot be reached.

Before he dresses in his kit he needs some Blister Derm and tape, and bandages too – he looks up for assistance, but discovers Geri’s in the way.

‘Good morning.’

‘Is it?’ he replies, feeling smart.

‘I think you lost this.’ And he tosses Leo’s phone into his lap.

‘Oh thanks.’

They’ve been like this – acerbic at best, more often distant – off and on for weeks. He isn’t sure which one of them initiated it, but thinks they blame each other, and so do nothing to sort it out. They see things differently, he and Geri. They disagree sometimes. When Leo is silent he hectors him to be a leader, yet when Leo’s vocal he offers no support.

‘You didn’t answer my message last night. About our meeting.’

Ah, so this is what his stunt was all about.

‘I don’t have time for meetings,’ Leo answers. ‘I’m busy.’

He’s not. After practice he’s got nothing to do all day but lounge around with his PlayStation; but admitting such a thing would make his life outside the training ground, outside football, look rather small and meaningless. He isn’t Geri: he isn’t an enterprising businessman with movie star looks and an inflated IQ. Leo does his talking on the pitch; he is a man of comparative simplicity.

‘I’m getting everyone together for a dinner. It would be nice if you turned up. Made an effort, you know?’

Leo laughs and shakes his head. ‘Geri, you wouldn’t know what making an effort meant if it punched you in the face.’

He takes a handful of tapes and bandages from a staff member and begins the protracted process of wrapping his foot. He is sitting in his tight boxers, with not an inch of fat to spare on his belly, and mutters to himself: _making an effort, eh_. Another shake of his head, and then he frowns quickly; some new and mysterious spot of soreness is under his touch.

Such a complex thing, the human foot, he thinks – so many intricate bits to go wrong. Muscles, tendons and bones – nerves. It’s funny how that’s all he is, really – a mass of skin and tissue. No different from anyone else.

‘I’m not sure your analogy is accurate, Leo.’ Geri’s not budging, and now his arms are crossed.

‘Oh?’ He shrugs: this is boring. Let Geri watch him, then. Let him watch all he likes and get nothing back. Leo can do this too: he watches that boy, De Jong, as he undresses. Very nice. He sits back and widens his legs – let’s his imagination take over.

‘Sorry, am I keeping you from something more important? God, you’re a dick today,’ Geri says. ‘You can’t hide from your responsibilities. Opting out is still sending a message of a different kind to the dressing room. Try to remember that.’

‘Don’t try to psychoanalyse me.’

‘I’m not.’ Geri is distinctly huffy and is soon off. Another player has brought a remote control car into the dressing room, and Geri can’t get enough of the silly, buzzing machine.

Leo throws a shin pad down and feels a rush of blood, a tightening in his chest. He hates how Geri can get the better of him mentally. He hates how he can work him out. One word from this man can cause a tsunami of rage, an avalanche of vitriol. Leo has to remember to breathe slowly through his nose and count back from one hundred. What right has Geri to tell him how to do his job? Leo is a captain here – he knows everything that’s going on. He knows what’s written in the press and has his own methods of dealing with it.

The toy car zips past at breakneck speed, narrowly missing his toes. Geri throws his head back with a wild surge of laughter, and the car continues its rampage.

Leo can see his career stretching out behind him – the years he should have added European silverware, but has a series of defeats to remember. Nothing is changing, save for the increase in errors, miscalculations, and mistakes. He’s always said he’d walk away if he stopped enjoying football, hasn’t he? He isn’t going through the motions yet, far from it: football is his life. He isn’t falling from grace like Ronaldinho did. He can still find salvation in winning big games, if they are capable of it, if they can adjust to a new coach and style of play.

Has Geri helped? Sometimes Leo thinks he lacks a certain focus. Geri is always occupied with activities outside of football. Occupied with anything and anyone but Leo. He watches him laughing effortlessly with Antoine, and can’t suppress a sudden burst of resentment; it almost surprises him. _Remember when it was that easy between you_, he thinks, and then: _But the years have complicated everything. You’re just a part in the machine to Geri now_. He wants to reach out privately, in an uncontentious way, and unburden himself. Explain how tired he feels, how pressured he is. He’d like to say he misses Geri. Could he do that – would he sound weak?

A party won’t resolve anything between them, and Geri must know this. He can picture it all quite clearly; Geri provoking a storm of players’ views, while Leo’s voice remains unheard. No, he’s right to stay clear, Leo thinks, and yet he takes no satisfaction in the choice.

At practice he’s a ball of tension, more reckless with each pass. It’s fine, until it’s not fine; when it boils over after he collides with Geri, rolling with an overdramatic flip.

It’s something he can’t resist.

If Geri is going to play games with him, there will be consequences.

They are a tangle of limbs, yet for a lanky centre-back, Geri is surprisingly gentle. He does not struggle or lash out; it’s Leo doing all of the theatrics.

‘Come on man!’ Geri wheezes from the ground.

‘What exactly is your problem?’ Marc leaps forward to help Geri to his feet.

Leo sits with his arms draped over his knees, a grimace on his face. ‘My problem? He went for me. Fuck off.’ He wrenches down one sock and rubs the pale, undamaged calf.

Jordi is at his side with a hand on his shoulder. 

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, Jordi. It’s just a knock.’ He tips his head back and grits his teeth. ‘Ah, shit.’

‘Not a scratch on him,’ Marc mutters. ‘Overdramatising.’

Geri looks genuinely hurt and confused. There’s a small gathering around them now. Leo can feel their eyes on him, including the coach’s.

Leo rounds on Marc.

‘Say that again to me.’

Jordi keeps a firm hold on Leo’s arm as he rises.

‘I’ve had enough of this.’ Marc walks away, adjusting his gloves. ‘Some of us want to train.’

Leo snaps. ‘Not playing my part, am I?’ The insinuation riles him, sweeps him along on a current of indignation he cannot escape. ‘Fuck you, Marc. Fuck all of you. I’ve given this team everything, and do any of you have my back? Not you,’ he points at Geri, ‘and not you!’ he shouts to Marc.

‘Now hold on,’ Geri answers, his demeanour far less agreeable. ‘When have I not had your back? Tell me that. Answer it honestly. Answer.’ Now he’s the one pointing a finger.

He feels cornered; trapped. Out here, with a crowd listening, he is not about to delve into the intimate workings of his and Geri’s relationship. Which one of them failed the other first. If he didn’t love him, didn’t care, then neither of them would be this upset.

Part of him thinks he hasn’t said enough. The season is rushing by; his dreams are fading with the days. Days when they are promised new signings, but end up empty-handed. Days when they look to the past and wish glory was not so fleeting. In football you always look ahead – you never enjoy the moment. Then when disaster strikes (Roma, Liverpool, whoever next? Every tournament with Argentina. The Copa del Rey already in tatters) he starts to wonder if this is it. How many dead ends can he reach before his legs finally give in?

And he thoroughly expected more support from Geri. He did. Publicly over the board’s recent criticisms. Privately, as a friend. Perhaps he’s being harsh – oversensitive – but all Geri’s done lately is try to make himself the centre of attention.

He jumps up in a rage and shoves Marc’s chest. It’s like hitting a brick wall. Not his brightest idea, but yet: ‘Come on then, let’s settle it. You’ve been a cunt to me all day.’

‘I think you’ve got that the wrong way round.’

Has Marc just called him a cunt?

‘Leo, Leo, Leo.’ Geri steps in at the wrong moment – Leo’s already throwing a punch. It doesn’t land clean – more a glancing blow to his chin – but Geri staggers back, stunned.

Fuck.

And then it’s all a blur as he’s submerged in arms and bodies, and the noise – the noise is deafening. Somewhere Setién makes a weak attempt to stop this silliness, but Leo’s had his fill. Jordi wrangles him free of the scrum and Leo doesn’t think twice about storming off the pitch.

The only intelligible thought remaining in his head is this: _Luis_.

There is no stillness or poise left. He’s overcome.

Leo forgets himself; he forgets who he is. The impulse – like a drug, like a spell – takes over, undoing his self-control at light speed. It’s gone, and all that is known to him is this heat, this searing pain which threatens to burst forth mercilessly through his chest. It animates him in terrifying ways, with a strength unknown as he pushes his way down a narrow corridor, knocking aside staff members and turning over a sports equipment trolley.

He can’t go back outside again. It’s done.

Everything falls to instinct now: he’s a hunter in pursuit. It’s been a week of silence, yet even if a year had passed, he’d do the same.

He knows where Luis is and he will find him.

It’s not through the first door he tries, which makes his fingers curl into fists. His eyes search the gym with fury nevertheless; but there are only rows of treadmills and exercise bikes to see. With his head raised back and nostrils flared, he tries again, and this time succeeds in the neighbouring room where Luis works tirelessly with a physio.

He’s angry – he is not greeted when he arrives – but the sight of Leo like this (his hair flat and sweat-soaked; his skin is horribly flushed) stops all activity between Luis and his colleague. There is silence and conjecture at the intrusion.

‘Leo?’ Luis asks, and winces as he shuffles awkwardly up the treatment table. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I need to speak to him,’ he says to the physio.

The way the man wipes his hands slowly on a towel and makes no hurry to leave is irritating. Everything here is irritating him; the place is not being properly managed; the club is fraying at the seams.

‘They’re against me.’ Leo begins when they are finally alone, rubbing at his forehead. ‘The team. I should have listened… When Geri –’

‘What’s happened? What have they done?’

‘There was a – a disagreement,’ Leo admits with distaste. How dreadfully embarrassing, yet tragically comic, to reveal his violent outburst to Luis. But he must go on and explain: ‘And Geri – it was an accident, I was aiming for Marc – I hit him.’

Luis’s cheeks puff out as he releases a long breath. ‘Is he okay?’

Leo thinks about snapping, but shrugs.

None of this seems to have fazed Luis yet. He leans back on the table and says steadily, ‘You need to calm down. You need to sit down and drink some _mate_. Think for a while. And keep clear of Geri, please.’

‘I am calm!’ Leo paces the floor, forgetting how to breathe. How dare he tell Leo what to do – how dare he speak to him like this? He stands in front of him, letting his eyes roam over Luis’s body; it’s still muscled and impossibly solid. Injury has not noticeably weakened him. Though Luis is taller and stronger than he is, Leo doesn’t hesitate to assert himself.

He grabs Luis’s arm so tightly that if his nails weren’t short, they’d sink right in.

‘You left me. You left me on my own with them when everything’s going to shit.’

‘Leo.’ The way Luis intones the word is a warning. He’s been dragged up to his feet. ‘I haven’t gone anywhere. I can’t change the fact my body failed me.’

The admission seems to have a brief steadying effect on Leo – he understands what being out of the game is like; the long, bleak days of recovery that seem to have no end – but he’s still swept up in a torrent of rage. It’s too intense for him to be reasoned with.

Luis can’t know how badly Leo is suffering without him.

‘Fuck you.’ He throws Luis’s arm back at him as if he’s the one who’s been failed.

Luis doesn’t flinch. His skin, red from Leo’s grip, will probably bruise.

‘None of this is fucking fair.’ Leo can’t seem to stop himself. ‘Everything has gone to hell. What am I supposed to do? Keep quiet and accept the blame? I won’t do it.’ He throws off his training bib.

‘I haven’t asked you to do that. But losing your cool with the others is only making it worse.’ Luis sighs and looks squarely at him. ‘You can still come to me. Nothing you say can shock me.’

Really, Leo thinks, Luis hasn’t got a clue what’s going through his mind.

How he’d like another physical battle.

How he’s desperate to be fucked.

‘I thought you wanted space. After the surgery.’ Leo toes the neon bib crumpled on the floor.

‘I did.’ Luis wets his lips and squeezes his eyes shut for a second. ‘I wasn’t in a good place. I thought the last thing you needed was my negativity. It felt like the right thing to do – to shut myself off for a while. I just want to get through these months so I can be useful to the team again.’

‘Fuck the team.’ Leo’s shoulders heave, and he’s aware of how petulant it sounds; how very unprofessional. The knuckles on his right hand are swollen and sore. He begins to wonder how Geri’s chin must feel right now. If he was any sort of man, Leo would go right back out and apologise.

But not now. He can’t.

‘You think any of this is easy for me?’ Luis’s patience begins to wane. ‘What can I do when I’m like this?’ he says, gesturing wildly at his scarred right knee. ‘All I can do is listen. We can talk.’

Leo turns on the spot and flings his arms out. ‘What is it with you all? Why does everyone want to talk? Crisis talks, meetings, fucking phone conferences. When did it ever solve anything? I play football – I’m not a professional mediator.’ He rubs his temples manically. ‘I tried to warn Geri how I felt, but he was too arrogant to listen. Now I’m done talking. I’ve said my fucking piece. I shouldn’t have to shoulder every shitty thing that goes wrong here!’

‘We all have to shoulder things we don’t want to. That’s life. Mine was tough enough to teach me that,’ Luis answers. It makes Leo feel petty and entitled. ‘You’re upset,’ Luis goes on, now in the spirit of rationalisation. ‘Under a lot of stress. I agree too much pressure is placed on you, but,’ he stops and catches Leo’s furious gaze, ‘but that’s not an excuse to lash out. We have to pull together, not apart.’

Despite the marks Leo’s left on his arm and the curses he’s thrown his way, Luis still tries to draw Leo back to him with a tan-coloured hand outstretched in sympathy.

‘I’m deeply concerned about everything that’s going on. You know that.’ Luis’s eyes search his face rapidly and he holds his hand by the fingertips – not daring to grip more. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be by your side constantly,’ he says with genuine disappointment.

Leo’s eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. Yes, he’s smarting from the professional difficulties he’s mired in; but it’s Luis’s abdication from their friendship which hurts the most. The silence screams out painfully every time Leo glances at his phone; every flight he takes where Luis is not seated next to him; the hours after training when he watches the lights switch off in Luis’s home next door, wondering, worrying how he is. If this was him, injured and battling depressive episodes, wouldn’t Luis be going frantic? The door has been unceremoniously slammed shut in Leo’s face.

He can’t handle it.

His stomach flutters as he turns Luis’s hold on his fingertips into a fully laced grip. _Okay_, he’s saying in his mind, _I trust you_. _I can give in just a little bit. _And he’s sure as he presses their hands further together, as if they could merge into one, he hears Luis’s breath hitch.

Perhaps it’s unhealthy how attached they’ve become. Yet at Leo’s age, knowing how friendships are built up and soon undone, there is an urgency to things. Anything could happen: by next month Luis could be gone for good.

Blood pumps through Leo’s veins, and Luis’s change in tact seems to catapult the conversation elsewhere. In his mind he tortures himself with the idea: Luis can give his body what it wants. He can make this better. Between them there should be no boundaries.

All he can think about is how good Luis’s mouth would feel on his.

‘I want you. I want you now,’ he says. It’s a statement: a command. His lips rest against the stubble on Luis’s jaw, and he breathes him in.

‘Huh?’ Luis questions softly, as if he can’t quite grasp it. ‘But you –’

Leo cuts him off with a kiss.

He can feel Luis hesitate, like he’s struggling to find the resolve to stop this. Their tongues touch briefly as his nerves twitch and jolt, and Leo wonders if they are going to take this further – to a mad, sweaty scramble over the faux-leather of the physio’s table.

Then Luis’s swallows and shakes his head, as if he’s waking up from some crazed dream.

‘Not like this.’ His breath quickens like he’s the one who’s been fighting on the pitch. His eyes grow dark, heavier and more determined.

‘What the fuck?’ Leo’s eyes narrow. ‘You’re telling me you don’t want it?’

Luis wipes his mouth slowly and turns aside. ‘You’re doing this to hurt yourself. To hurt Geri. To hurt _me_.’ He says that last word with thunder. ‘No. I don’t want it.’ He folds his thick arms across his chest as if to protect himself.

Wait – Geri?

‘What the hell has Geri got to do with it?’

‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’ There’s a flicker of anger in Luis’s voice. ‘Don’t pretend you came to ask how I am.’

‘But Luis –’

‘Which isn’t good, by the way.’ His eyes are bloodshot, and Leo begins to see that he is suffering. ‘I’m feeling pretty fucked up. I’m killing myself to come back while you all squabble and complain.’ He starts to look enraged. ‘I feel like _I’m_ the one getting used here.’

Leo can’t believe it has come to this. For a moment – just a mere moment – the haze of fury lifts to let in something worse, something more distressing. There is extreme fear and anxiety, a terrible anxiety that Luis is lost to him, and deep shame too. He has managed to drive away everyone he holds dear.

It’s the shame he can’t bear.

‘I shouldn’t have come to you.’

‘Leo, wait!’

Why does he return? Numbly, mutely, he questions himself; but the logical side of his mind has taken charge and leads him on a solemn journey back towards the dressing room. It is used to the weight of his thoughts, of the unending silence he imposes upon it. 

He wants to believe everything Luis said is a lie. Part of him can accept this version of reality – it is more palatable; it vindicates Leo. (Is he using Luis? Is he Leo’s security blanket?) But deep down he knows these lies cut closer to the truth.

He hates himself. He keeps quiet because he hates what love has done to him. Crushing, distorting, attacking his senses in a manner he cannot overcome, in a method that is impossible to defeat. He will not be a prisoner to this or anything else – he agreed long ago, made a pact with his own heart never to submit. 

And he still loves Geri. Still, it hurts. 

He watches with the passing years the damage they have done to one another – how they dissemble, hide and distort. It is easier to pretend they have moved on; the past is best forgotten.

But love does not die gently; it takes on a will of its own. No matter who Leo sees. No matter who Geri fucks.

When he’s through the door at last, nobody speaks; nobody deigns to ask how he is. Leo the boy wonder, the genius, must have terrified them all with a display of human fallibility. Today could be an indicator of things to come, and they are always careful to avoid the subject of his decline.

He looks to Geri’s place but finds he’s already left. Leo’s heart drops.

If he could face him now (if he had to) he would seek forgiveness. He would cry in his usual manner: the tears unaccompanied by sound. But if Geri has gone then this speaks greatly of his annoyance – his unwillingness to allow Leo to mend what he has done.

Leo will shut the world out, then. This way is familiar; retreating to his cage is the far safer option. It has allowed him to reach the dizzying heights of success and sustain himself emotionally on this alone. If he pretends, it is because he has to. If he lies, it is because he must. However he feels on the inside must stay locked there in order for him to go on.


	2. Chapter 2

_Memory fragment. Leo is fourteen_:

He is cornered in an alcove at the Catalan school. In Leo’s small, pale arms is a heavy stack of books which he closely embraces, as if they hold some protective quality. The two older boys stand over him with menace: _at least there aren’t more of them today_, Leo thinks. One flicks at the unruly mop of brown hair on his head, and the other tugs his ear.

He hates it here at the _escola_. It’s like a prison from which he longs to escape.

‘Still learning your ABCs, dwarf?’ The tallest one says, taking his Catalan workbook. ‘Let’s see how well you do without this.’

‘Give it back to me.’ He feels outraged. Outnumbered. His childlike fists are clenched uselessly by his sides. If these two were footballers, he’d beat them on the pitch. He’d show them who’s boss. Here at his new school, he’s no means to impress, evade or deter bullies. All his old friends are miles away in Argentina, and his father is at work.

He has a target on his back, this small, different boy with his thick Argentine accent and disinterest in life beyond football. He is not studious, but not yet confident enough to truly rebel against authority.

‘Take it then,’ the boy says, jerking it out of reach when Leo tries. ‘Not so talented now, are you?’

The book is passed to the bully’s friend, who tosses it over the balustrade. They knock the rest of Leo’s belongings to the ground and shove him against the wall. Now for the finale, he realises with a grimace; will it be a punch to the gut or a kick?

Leo starts to feel nauseous.

‘_De qui es aixó?_ Whose is this?’ a voice calls out from below.

On the staircase, directly in front, a familiar face appears.

Geri, visibly puzzled, has the discarded book in his hand. He stares at Leo’s troubled face, and from one boy to the next. Leo can see the moment realisation sinks in.

Geri races up the stairs and the two boys try to scatter.

‘_On_ _vas? _Where are you going?’ Geri demands. His boldness, his lean muscularity, seems to shine in Leo’s eyes then. He pushes the taller one hard in the chest – _slam_ – and grips the other’s rucksack. ‘Don’t you touch him again, you hear?’ He’s speaking in Spanish, viciously. ‘Fucking pair of dicks.’ He lets his captive go, and the boy trips over spectacularly.

Now he turns to look at Leo, who nervously gathers his possessions. _Don’t stare, don’t gawp at him_, he tells himself, _or Geri will think you’re stupid as well as weak_. But he wants to; and he wants to speak, but finds he’s impossibly tongue-tied.

Leo is embarrassed, but above all else, grateful for the help. His hands shake as he tries to restore order to his books, and suddenly Geri is there, kneeling beside him in the clutter. They reach for the same one, and Leo blushes as their fingers touch.

‘Are you okay, little guy?’ Geri brushes the hair out of Leo’s face. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’ His voice squeaks. He starts to pack his bag hurriedly, but there’s not much room in there with a football already inside it. ‘Thanks.’

‘That’s all right.’ Geri picks up a heavy tome which has landed with its pages open. ‘Ramón Llull?’ he inquires with a tilt of the head.

Leo shrugs.

Geri smiles and begins to translate: ‘_You need not speak to me; but make a signal with your eyes, which talk to my heart – when I give what you ask of me_.’

He looks up from the text to catch Leo’s gaze, unmoving, returning a silent challenge.

_The present day_:

He dreams, but not of trophies and crowds — not of _golazos_. In the realm of his mind he often returns home to Rosario. Sometimes he can smell his mother Celia’s cooking in the four-room house his father built. He can feel the heady breeze, the long wild grass on the rough patch of land where he played football with his brothers. In these dreams he is young and free again. Everything is possible; sometimes he can see the future spread out like the pages in a picture book, the different arrows of fate flickering through the cramped bedroom he once shared with his siblings. There is an arrow leading him to Newell’s and the hormonal treatment he will undergo. There is the arrow to Barcelona. And another, which connects him directly to Geri. He can see him standing faintly by the window near his bed back at _La Masia_, a happy looking teenager who fills Leo with an instant rush of affection. But they cannot communicate – not in this state of consciousness – and the arrow always threatens to break.

And he awakens alone to a morning still steeped in darkness.

There is the sense that something intangible has been taken from him after such dreams; he unsettled when he returns to reality. With the lights on he reaches for a glass of water on his bedside table, and from the drawer below extracts his Bach Rescue Remedy. This he adds to the drink to calm his nerves, and sips gently, and thinks.

His father always reminds him, always cautions him to show humility; to remember he loved the ball before anything else. Before fame came hurtling into his life, before money and the media circus. It has been a weight and a lever. It gives and it takes. It means he must show probity in all things. It means he will inevitably, eventually, fall short of these exacting standards.

Maybe Luis gets this better than anyone. Maybe Luis is the answer.

_I'm sorry,_ he texts.

_I know,_ he replies. _I’m sorry too._

_Can we go back to how it was?_ he asks. But Luis stops answering.

Leo is assailed by panic when he notices Geri’s tall frame, ducking slightly as he enters through a separate doorway. He does not spot Leo – is too consumed by something on his phone. They are in the same building, but not heading the same way, Leo hopes. He’s been summoned via text to attend an appointment with the president, Bartomeu. This, he assumes, must be an urgent contractual issue. He’d prefer his father to be here by his side, but at such short notice Leo’s on his own.

Wearing a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, his unkempt hair is hidden under a baseball cap. This morning he is running late after a series of disturbed and fretful nights. At least training is not until later this morning, and yesterday was a day off. He takes the stairs to the office at a slow pace, apprehensive about what’s ahead.

He wishes he hadn’t seen Geri on the floor below. He has spent the past day arguing with himself: Should he call? Text? Anything would have been better than staying trapped in purgatory. But he’s afraid of more rejection, and afraid he’ll make things worse.

Leo checks he’s on the right level and then walks sluggishly along the corridor. His head is lowered. He’s deep in thought. He doesn’t see Geri until he reaches the point where Bartomeu’s office is.

Geri must have taken the elevator and arrived here first.

This is intensely awkward, and Leo feels horrified. If Geri is surprised he does not reveal it, but opens the door and says smoothly, ‘Go ahead.’

It’s a preposterous idea: Leo can’t think of anything worse than being confined with Geri in the small, stifling office, waiting for Bartomeu. They are alone when he closes the door firmly behind them, sealing them in to their fate. 

Geri looks flawless in a designer suit and tie as he settles into a chair. He’s so close that Leo can smell his exquisite cologne and catch the minty freshness on his breath. What is he thinking? Did he know Leo would be here? He appears perfectly calm and collected: Leo wants to ask him what he knows, but he can feel himself falling into the clutches of anxiety.

The Catalan flag hangs beside the club’s crest on the wall. Geri’s knee is threatening to encroach on Leo’s as they sit side by side in marked silence. If he’d simply close his long legs a bit more, there would be enough space – the potential risk of contact makes Leo sweat.

He allows himself to surreptitiously inspect Geri’s jaw for signs of bruising, but it’s hard to see much through his beard.

‘You didn’t turn up on Wednesday.’

The sound of Geri’s voice shatters the quiet. Leo tenses (has he been caught looking?). 

‘I wasn’t in the mood for a party.’

Geri turns in his chair. ‘It wasn’t a party. My idea was to gather a few senior players together and brainstorm over a few glasses of wine.’

‘It sounds like a party. I’m keeping out of all that now. I’ve said enough.’

‘You’re avoiding me.’

The words distress Leo with their tone of sadness. He expected anger, or some form of unpleasant retaliation from Geri, but not this.

There’s a sudden feeling, like a fist pounding his belly, when he thinks of Geri enduring the silence, nursing a bruise and questioning why Leo would not come to him. Hasn’t Leo been unbearably cruel? He flounders at the thought, and fears he does not know how – cannot find an adequate way to explain or redress it. They call him a hero on the pitch, but here next to a man he loves, he feels little more than a coward.

Leo glances quickly at his watch. ‘What time was he supposed to be here? Can’t even turn up to his own damn meeting – how’s that for business acumen.’ He leans forward and drums his fingers on the desk. ‘I’m sick of this.’

Geri’s hands are folded neatly in his lap. ‘He’ll be here.’

‘Perhaps he’s just fucking with us.’ Leo starts to fidget. ‘I hate these sorts of things. I never know what to say. What to do.’

Geri begins to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Leo, he can bombard you with a lecture on the club’s vision and transformational policy, but it comes down to this: money. If you walk out this summer,’ Geri says, prodding the arm of his chair with one finger, ‘then it’s a body blow to the club that will catapult us into a much deeper, more complex set of problems. Problems we’re vastly unprepared to solve.’ He takes a breath. ‘You know you have power. Even over his position as president.’

Leo sits back in his chair and stretches his arms out.

‘What do you think this is about then? More shit with Abidal? My contract? Our performance in the Copa?’ Leo frowns. ‘Neymar?’

Geri scratches his facial hair in thought. ‘It would be a sizeable sweetener to get you to sign a new contract. But no, I think he’s feeling out the mood in the squad. If there’s further dissent. Maybe he’s had word that we’re…’ Geri trails off dismally.

‘What?’

‘That you and I are not getting along.’

There’s a long, difficult pause. Leo’s heart begins to thud beneath his chest. Surely Bartomeu wouldn’t intervene on a basic disciplinary issue?

He’s ashamed of what he’s done. Leo should have mended the rift long before it reached this point.

‘I’m sorry I hit you.’ Leo’s voice is choked with misery. ‘I never meant –’

‘I know, I know. But thank you.’

He can sense Geri looking at him now. Leo makes a concerted effort to stare ahead. Inside he’s weakening. If he could find the mark he left on Geri, he would press his lips there and whisper another apology.

It’s awfully warm in the room with their chairs mere inches apart.

‘What was said? At the meeting,’ he asks, both curious and keen to change the topic.

‘That there’s still time to put things right.’

It strikes Leo how the sentiment could reflect on their own friendship as well as the team’s current position. He should have turned up and said something, even though he’s hopeless at giving speeches. Keeping away, remaining silent, has done him no favours. He wants to shake off any lingering criticisms about him being self-involved or even egotistic.

‘There’s room for improvement, definitely. It would help if they,’ he gestures at the desk, ‘did their jobs and let us do ours.’

‘I never disagreed with your stance. Quite the opposite. You simply didn’t give me an opportunity to offer you support. Ever since Luis’s been out, it’s like you’ve created this huge barrier around yourself. I can’t even get near you without you freezing up. And then you –’

‘I know what I did.’ It’s suddenly hard to swallow. ‘I’ve apologised and I’ll apologise again.’

‘You think that’s what I’m asking you for? To grovel?’

‘Geri, please.’

‘Sometimes you’re impossible.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Was it a tactical decision to stop letting me in, or is Luis just a better confidant?’

Leo shoots Geri a stern look. ‘What has Luis got to do with it? The man’s injured.’ He straightens in his chair. ‘He’ll be gone for months.’

Inside he’s desperate for Geri to drop the subject. He’s still nursing the humiliation of his visit to the rehabilitation facility – the rejection, coupled with the revelation of Luis’s own deep insecurities, is raw. The messages Leo sent were hardly an express route to regaining his trust; Leo should have known better. It will take time: Luis is a complicated person.

‘You’re right. Anything could happen by then. He could be permanently replaced,’ Geri says, and there’s a definite hint of smugness in his voice.

‘Maybe you will be replaced.’ Leo offers him a wry smile. ‘As you say, anything could happen.’

‘Not yet.’ Geri struggles for a moment. ‘Are things so bad that you’d honestly prefer to see me leave?’

Leo regrets saying it in an instant – a throwaway comment passed in the heat of the moment. The truth is he is easily wrong-footed by Geri. He thinks more carefully now, and says, ‘Of course not. We’ve known each other too long.’

Stiffly: ‘Yes.’

They listen to the clock ticking steadily as another minute slips by.

‘Imagine if I hadn’t come here – sometimes I think about that. What my life would have been like in Argentina; all the people I’d never have left behind.’

‘Or met.’

‘If Newell’s had paid for my treatment –’

‘But they refused. Barcelona gave you everything. This was your dream.’

‘I didn’t realise what a huge change it would be coming here.’ He rests his elbows on the arms of his chair and stares down at his hands. ‘We didn’t know if things would work out for the family. For me. My old man gambled everything on the chance of my success.’

‘I’d say it paid off.’

He looks up at the ceiling. ‘Father put his faith in God and brought me here.’

‘You couldn’t leave now.’

‘I don’t even know if I’ll play for Newell’s at the end of my career. It means uprooting my life again.’

‘You belong here.’

‘Yes.’ He must acknowledge this. ‘Yes, I do now.’

Pride is his downfall. He can’t imagine confessing everything to Geri. How do people reveal the intimate secrets of their heart? It’s impossible to form the necessary words, and if he tried, Leo knows his voice would seize. But Leo can recall everything; how he cried for Geri after he left for England; how he battled to fit in the first team. The years they spent apart spread out like centuries, and all the while each new friendship, each drunken tryst, served only as a poor reference to what he and Geri had once shared. With success came all the perks and temptations, but in receiving them he’d seemingly traded something money couldn’t buy: love, security, and acceptance.

He sighs heavily. He wants to say: _I begged Joan Laporta to bring you back here. I loved you. I never stopped, you know? I told him: Bring Geri back to me._

He wants Geri to come back to him again, here and now, and to never leave.

‘Leo, are you alright?’

What can he possibly say? He’s ruined everything with Luis. He can only hurt the man he loves. The team believes he has lost his sanity. And it’s all about _him_: Geri.

He has tried to let the past go and failed.

‘No. I’m not.’ And he feels thirteen again saying it, in a tiny, pleading voice: ‘Geri –’

The door opens and Bartomeu strides in.

‘It’s regrettable that I’m so late.’

Leo scratches his nose and thinks, _I wish you’d just never turned up, you piece of shit_. 

‘Gerard, I trust all is well? Leo also?’

_Sí sí sí_.

‘I know this is highly unusual – bringing you both here at short notice. But I felt it was necessary for us all to seek clarity, under the circumstances.’ He’s sat behind his desk, very upright, and adjusts his glasses before he continues. ‘I was informed about a meeting you organised for the players, Gerard. We have spoken about such activities previously, on a separate occasion.’

‘It was a private meeting among friends. I broke no rules.’

‘And that you have been advising on matters pertaining to the next elections, with a view to position yourself as my successor.’

‘Absolutely untrue.’

‘And that you have already given Leo assurances over transfers and the selection of board members.’

‘I think you’re mistaken.’

‘Leo.’ Bartomeu’s head swivels in his direction to begin his next interrogation. ‘Is this the case? I understood all was settled between you and Abidal. I am hearing that you feel dissatisfied and restless. I hope this isn’t so. The club, as I’m sure you’re well aware, has always endeavoured to satisfy its best and most renowned player.’

‘I feel frustrated sometimes. I want to win. But I’m happy to do my job and leave the board to do theirs.’ He avoids eye contact. ‘I play football, not politics.’

It’s as amicable an answer as he can give. That he and Geri are machinating against the board seems like an absurd fantasy.

‘It pains me to bring up this issue,’ Bartomeu says, ‘but we do have to uphold disciplinary standards. We have a global image to consider.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ he says.

Bartomeu looks at them both. ‘I’m sure we can move forward from this misunderstanding without the need, as I must put it in your own words of late, Gerard, “to air dirty laundry”.’

Leo frowns.

‘Such as?’ Geri asks, his voice rising sharply.

Leo puts his hand over Geri’s, as if to say, _I’ve got this_.

‘That’s your decision. But I’d strongly suggest we all walk away calmly and go back to our own jobs. We can still have a successful season. I'm motivated, and I know Geri is too. We’re prepared to do everything for the team. We don’t need more noise from outside,’ he affirms.

A smile finally appears on Bartomeu’s face. ‘I’m glad we’re all speaking the same language.’

Geri punches the vending machine on their way out of the office.

‘Fucking bastard,’ he yells. He turns swiftly to Leo with wild eyes. ‘You could have roasted him in there. Why didn’t you?’

‘What’s the point?’ Leo shrugs. ‘He’ll be gone soon enough anyway.’

‘It was a direct threat.’

‘It was an empty threat.’

‘I’m not so sure you’ve grasped the severity of this. Every bit of bad press we get flung at us will be largely down to him and his cronies. He doesn’t give a damn about the team.’ Geri sticks his hands deep into the pockets of his suit. He twists round to stand in front of Leo. ‘They shouldn’t be treating you this way. You do understand that?’

‘It’s not just me.’ He sighs and alters his baseball cap. ‘I want to enjoy my football. With you. This entire situation shouldn’t be happening.’

‘He wants to stay in control, Leo. He sees us as an obstacle. Today was all about catching us off guard so he could pontificate. Which tells me the situation must be getting rather desperate for him.’ Geri’s eyes dart around as if he’s searching for a clever move to make. ‘If only he was exposed somehow. He makes me out to be a megalomaniac. It’s absolutely none of his business what we talk about in private.’

Is Geri behaving appropriately? Leo can’t truly vouch for him – he did not attend his meeting. He knows there are preliminary plans in Geri’s head about the future, and there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s talked about the presidency before. But is he embroiled in something insidious; is he plotting against the hierarchy? He looks at Geri and can’t believe he’d contemplate such a thing with his entire career at stake. Leo should be annoyed his own name has been dragged into this debacle, but a sudden urge to resolve everything has eclipsed his anger. He wants this unsettled phase to end. He wants to regain his form. He wants to be the one to calm Geri down and take care of him.

‘Geri, look at me.’ Leo squeezes his hand. ‘This isn’t worth pursuing. Not unless you want to put your job on the line. And I don’t want you to do that. I want more time with you, not less.’

This seems to pacify Geri. ‘You want more time with me,’ he repeats slowly, examining Leo’s eyes, as if seeing him in a new light. ‘Then stop being so afraid.’

Is Leo afraid? The idea affronts him on a surface level – fear is the enemy of an athlete – but below, in those dark waters of the past, he’s still the terrified small boy who believes he’s somehow inadequate; a figure of fun. He and Geri are from separate continents, are like ice and fire, have followed different paths which, miraculously, have moved in strange parallels and converged. They are inexplicably bound to one another. He is afraid; he has always been afraid of this. Geri reads him far too well, and whatever Leo leaves unsaid may as well be written on the wall.

This is the person he is meant to be with, and he has repeatedly, deliberately sabotaged their relationship; because taking a leap of faith always risks complete abandonment.

To trust him is terrifying. To not trust is another kind of death.

‘I am afraid,’ Leo admits. He casts his eyes to the floor in his naturally diffident habit, as if he can avoid the decades of pain and longing that Geri manages to uncover. ‘You’re always trying to break down my defences.’

‘Just kiss me, for God’s sake.’

‘Here?’ he asks, astonished as he sweeps a glance down the corridor. It’s empty – for now.

‘I could take you back into the demon’s office if you’d really like a show? Yes, here.’

And Geri buries his mouth into the flesh of Leo’s neck regardless, and it feels euphoric to be taken like this, to be possessed by him in public. He wishes Geri would mark him; he feels the slight scrape of his teeth and releases a ragged breath.

‘Come to me. Tonight. Stop running.’ Geri sounds desperate.

‘Okay.’ A jolt of fire shoots through Leo at the thought of being with him, alone. He chews his lip and says, ‘Whatever you want.’

Leo feels Geri tilt his chin up. Now their eyes meet, and the intimacy and power of his gaze is startling.

‘I want _you_ to want it. Tell me: say it.’

Leo squeezes Geri’s hand again. He can hardly catch his breath for the thrill of it all, and repeats like a mantra, ‘I want it.’

He is submerged, temporarily; submerged into the past during his siesta. The bright afternoon in his living room dissolves, and he is thrown into a memory, somewhat distorted, of a more recent past. The colour, noise and drama of better days, of celebrations and parades is suddenly real again. There’s Xavi; there’s Iniesta; there’s Neymar and Geri, the two of them drunkenly play-fighting after the treble, coated in sweet champagne. And Leo observes from a distance, mute, controlled, the consummate professional, the feted athlete worthy of his honours. How wonderful to feel worthy again; to bask in it as a lion does after a big kill on the savanna.

It’s only in private he descends from the detached appreciation of his prizes. A hotel room and a dozen or more drinks later, and Geri is standing naked before him, smoking a Cuban cigar and drawling, ‘If I’d known you were into this... Fuck.’

The room smells of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat. _Their_ sweat. And he sees Geri move towards him through a haze of smoke, his face altered by an indecent sense of longing.

‘_T’estimo_, I love you. Like this. Here. Now,’ are the last words he remembers hearing, whispered hotly in his ear.

Later, when he looks at Geri sleeping serenely, like something from a mythological painting, Leo feels a panicked desire. The tousled hair, the rakish quality of his face, his scent – all of these things become hypnotic and powerful. Wanting someone with the hunger he feels at this moment is close to insanity.

It is insane to want someone as reckless and unpredictable as Geri.

There’s a sense of shame at the filth of the bedsheets, and the fingerprint bruises he has left all over Geri’s skin, and yet an ugly pride in it. _Here I was, on you_, he thinks, _and you can’t wash me away_.

What has he done? What have they done? Leo has to get out of here before Geri wakes.

The evening arrives and his thoughts are lucid again. Despite the intense craving he has for Geri – or maybe because of it – his body cramps with nerves.

He wants this; he knows he wants Geri, and says the words to himself before the door opens.

Leo is a little surprised (or rather overwhelmed) when he’s greeted by Geri’s mother inside the mansion, with a kiss to each cheek. Montserrat seems to have made a tremendous effort. Her son watches from behind his mother’s shoulder, noticeably less composed than he was when he and Leo first crossed paths outside Bartomeu’s office earlier.

And so his first theory for the night is disproved: Geri does get stage fright.

There’s a wonderful spread of food on the dining table. ‘I told you he hates fish, Mother,’ Geri keeps saying. ‘She wouldn’t listen. She was dictating the menu to the chef,’ Geri adds.

‘You look so pale and thin,’ Montserrat says, examining Leo as she grips his hands. ‘What have they been feeding you on? These dieticians at the club are amateurs. Look at him Geri, hasn’t he lost weight?’

‘I think he looks great.’ Geri smiles. ‘Come along, Mother, you’ll be late for the theatre if you don’t hurry.’

‘Let me know what you think about the sautéed spinach, Leo,’ Montserrat says airily as Geri helps her into a long woollen coat. ‘You boys look after one another.’

‘We will, Mother. Now farewell.’ Geri picks up her purse and places it in her manicured hands, swiftly directing her out.

Leo smiles self-consciously. ‘It was nice seeing you again,’ he calls out. ‘Thank you for the food.’

Geri closes the door behind her and rests his back against it with a sigh. ‘I’ve had the most unbearable day with her,’ he says, clearly exasperated. ‘I let it slip that you were coming over, and since then she’s been on a mission. I thought she’d be gone by 7:00 p.m., but no such luck.’

‘It’s fine.’ He suppresses a laugh. ‘She cares about you, that’s all.’

‘She fusses too much.’ Geri moves towards Leo as he slips off his jacket, and now they are closely facing one another. He seems to have temporarily run out of words. ‘Well I – I suppose… would you like me to take this?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Leo hands it to him. He feels slightly shaky now he’s here, and wishes they could skip past the formality of Montserrat’s elaborate dinner. ‘Thanks. For all of this, Geri. You didn’t need to make a special effort for me. It’s not like I’ve been a great friend lately.'

‘Nonsense. Come and sit down.’ Geri leads Leo to his place at the neatly set table and pulls out a chair for him to sit. ‘I think there’s enough food here for the whole team – Mother has surpassed herself.’

They begin to eat; Leo rather sparingly, with a preference for the sweeter vegetables and a keen interest in the wine. The mansion is flawless, he notes, much like its owner. He can barely keep his gaze from the top of Geri’s shirt, which is casually unbuttoned to show a perfect portion of flesh.

‘I’m glad you came.’ Geri looks at him directly as he speaks. ‘After the meeting this morning, I thought maybe you’d change your mind later on.’ He lowers his eyes and continues, ‘There have been so many times we seemed to get closer, to really communicate and be on the verge of something special, and then you’d bolt.’

Leo pushes the food around his plate with a fork and says, ‘I’m sorry. For everything. I shouldn’t have lashed out the way I did the other day. It was wrong.’

Geri’s piercing gaze is on him again.

‘It’s in the past, Leo. I only wish you’d come to me before things boiled over. I knew you weren’t happy, but every time I reached out your reaction was...’

‘Crazy?’ He picks up his glass of wine and stares at the contents. ‘I've been in a world of my own. I get like it sometimes. Not scoring. The niggling injuries. All the negativity. I keep thinking I can handle it alone, but the truth is normally I’d talk to Luis.’ Shit, he’s mentioned his name. No time to backtrack now: ‘But he’s not around, and – and it’s time I stopped hiding behind him.’

Geri wipes his mouth on a serviette. ‘Good old Luis. Is that all he is – your big, surly comfort blanket? Or does he have a more active role?’ He pours himself another glass of wine, visibly hurt.

Leo pushes his plate away, rankled by Geri’s flagrant assumption. ‘It’s not like that, it’s not…’ He shakes his head vehemently, but can’t finish the sentence. At every turn Geri seems to catch him.

‘I see you disappear into hotel rooms together, and I can’t help thinking you’re doing with him what you used to do with me. I need to know if there’s something going on between you.’

‘No. Nothing.’

It’s not a lie; it’s not. Nothing is happening – Luis has ghosted him. They kissed once, and now it is over. Leo’s treacherous moods, rising and falling like the sea, have subsided. He wants Geri, and Geri only.

Leo can see Geri trying to read his mind, calculating the odds of his honesty, as if they’re playing a game of cards together.

He thinks it’s time to bet all of his chips: ‘I’m here with _you_. I want to talk to _you_. Not Luis.’

‘I wish you could let me in. Like you once did. I’ve hated this distance between us.’ He sighs and rubs his forehead. ‘I know we’re all dealing with intense demands from the club – you more than any of us – but I’m with you. I’m here for you. Leo, I love you.’

And he thinks this must be hurting Geri too. All of it. He too carries the weight of every loss; he wears the club’s crest and fights emphatically to the end, yet is publicly criticised, held responsible and found wanting. They are one and the same. He has suffered from their separation and Leo’s inability to let himself love and be loved – to finally lower his defences. If you keep freezing someone out, don’t they eventually stay cold? He is amazed at Geri’s warmth. Without a big win, without a bottle of champagne, when has Leo really let go and allowed himself to sate the physical yearning for Geri, if not the emotional one? On inspection, he feels ill with guilt. He is a foolish, selfish man.

He knows he is lucky to be invited here tonight, to have Geri’s forgiveness and love. He has let things corrode dangerously and lived by his own assumptions. He has convinced himself for years that Geri sees him as an amusement. But maybe Leo has been the problem all along; is he holding back the team as well as Geri? The thought drives at him like a dagger.

‘I love you too. But I know I can’t outrun time,’ he says with sadness evident in his voice. ‘I keep thinking I haven’t done enough. To save this season and to save things with you. And I’m scared of the future.’

Geri holds Leo’s hands and says, ‘The world is going to change around us. But the way I feel about you will stay the same forever.’

He does not deserve this kindness.

‘Can I – I know this sounds stupid – but I want to know where I – you know. Did it bruise?’ he asks, feeling a surge of shame.

‘Oh? Oh, that!’ Geri’s face crumples with laughter. ‘Just here.’ He points to the right side of his chin. ‘You can’t see it for my beard. It’s a bit sore, but I’ve had worse. If you’d done any serious damage my modelling days might have been over.’ There’s a mischievous glint in his eye.

‘Geri, I feel terrible for what I’ve done.’ He reaches across and lightly touches the spot, and somehow resists putting his mouth there.

‘If you really do feel this burden of guilt, then I’m sure I can make use of it,’ he says, and catches Leo’s hand to plant a kiss on it. ‘Perhaps I’ll keep you here all to myself. And you can think up various ways to make it right to me.’ His blue eyes dart to Leo’s with a knowing look, and he does not release his hold.

‘And how long until my debt’s repaid?’

Geri looks serious for a moment. ‘Oh, _years_. Definitely years, I’d say.’ They both laugh, but then Geri fixes his attention on Leo’s scuffed knuckles. He kisses the sensitive flesh, and flashes a look at him once more. ‘Promise me you won’t shut me out again?’ he says, gripping Leo’s wrist tight.

Leo’s head is slightly bowed. ‘I… I promise.’ His chest expands with a deep breath, and then he returns Geri’s gaze steadily. Leo notices how quick his pulse is beating now. This feels very serious, like swearing an oath; he knows he can’t renege on a promise to Geri.

He stands up from his seat and pulls Leo into his arms. ‘Can you trust me? If you give yourself completely, I’ll do the same.’

‘I can.’

He feels Geri’s long fingers move through his hair and down the back of his neck. Before he knows it they are kissing – not forcefully or frantically – but with a slow and gentle cautiousness. As if they have never kissed before. He buries his head in Geri’s chest and breathes him in, and the scent feels like home.

He makes them both a coffee – Geri doesn’t do _mate_ – which they take outside to the porch. There are lights hanging in the garden, and though the night is cool, Leo seems to relish the fresh air. Geri is close to him as they look out at the view; the mansion is situated atop a hill with fantastic vistas of the city. Above them the stars are out, and Leo feels the moment is right, for once; he feels an intense need to bring up the past.

‘I was fascinated by you from the time you first spoke to me.’ He starts to falter, but urges himself to go on: ‘But I didn’t know myself when I was young. I was afraid. I thought there must be something wrong with me to feel the way I did. I could never summon the courage to tell you how I felt, and so I suffered.’

‘Leo.’

‘My father thought I was in my room crying for the life I’d left in Argentina; but I was crying for the one I’d never have with you.’

Geri puts his cup down and gives Leo an intense look. Under the lights his eyes glisten.

‘I was always trying to find a way to speak to you,’ Geri says, as he puts a hand on Leo’s arm and rubs it tenderly. ‘You were so quiet – like something otherworldly; the manner in which you touched the ball, and your passion for the game lit something in me, something that went far beyond being your teammate. But I was immature. At first I thought I could torture you for attention, and later I tried stealing kisses. And always, I’d steal your clothes if the chance occurred. I kept them. Certain items, anyway,’ he admits.

‘What for?’

‘They carried your scent. I was a horny teenager. Work it out.’

Leo puts his hands over his face and laughs.

‘Do you remember the first time I kissed you? At _La Masia_, in my room. You weren’t even living there but I tried to convince you to stay the night with me. And you wouldn’t. You said your father would worry – that he’d come looking for you.’

‘I was shy. Scared we’d be caught.’

‘I soon coaxed you out of that, didn’t I?’ he asks, kissing the top of Leo’s head. ‘You soon warmed to me.’

‘I did. I felt safe with you. Those were happy years – we had the world at our feet.’

‘When I came back to Barcelona, you’d changed,’ Geri says with a quiver in his voice. ‘You didn’t seem to need protecting anymore. There was a hardness to you. I felt excluded.’

Leo’s head is down. ‘I never meant for that. But there were things I went through while you were gone. I had to prove myself to survive. You went through the same in England.’

‘Yes, that’s true. I… I lost control.’ He sighs and lets his eyes fall shut, as if he’s back to that specific time in Manchester when his life began to crumble. ‘I didn’t think I was coming back here.’ He sniffs.

‘As soon as Laporta mentioned your name, I insisted. I said, “Bring him back to me.”’

‘You did?’

‘Geri, I never forgot you.’

‘Come inside. I have to show you something.’

He leads him back through the mansion by the hand. Leo likes Geri doing this – taking over. Normally he is resistant to the prospect of relinquishing control, but now it thrills him. This night is extraordinary, he thinks. Anything could happen, if only he allows it. They are at a door he does not recognise, and Geri pauses here to let him in.

It’s filled with books.

Leo has to fight back his initial disappointment; he had not expected this of all things, and has no gusto, no enthusiasm for words. There’s a dusty, dry scent of paper in the room which is vaguely reminiscent of his schooldays. It sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine, and he is astonished to see Geri’s captivation as he surveys the abundance of leather-bound tomes.

A desk, neatly organised with pens and a brass reading lamp occupies one end of this alien landscape. Is this his study? Is this where Geri plots his next perplexing move in the fast-paced world of business? If it is, then Leo knows he does not belong in such a place.

‘Why have you brought me here?’ Leo asks, not fully disguising his irritation.

Geri looks too handsome as he slips a weighty book from the shelf, and says, ‘Do you remember this? It’s a collection of medieval Catalan poetry.’

Leo’s forehead crinkles. ‘I don’t read books.’

‘No, that’s why it ended up with me on one of those long, rainy days at _La Masia_. But it was yours. Once.’

Leo comes closer and takes a proper look. ‘I… you kept it all these years? Why?’

‘We had that moment in the hallway at school, don’t you remember? I read a line from Llull to you, and you paused, and I thought I saw some emotion pass through you. That we had a connection, however brief.’

‘Yes.’ He steps forward, into the warm light radiating from above, and blinks in quick succession. Yes; it is all coming back to him. ‘I didn’t think someone like you would… be interested. But I,’ he stops and shakes his head. He is halfway between a laugh and a sob.

‘But I was.’ Geri closes the space between them and presses his palm to Leo’s cheek. ‘I am. I always will be. Leo,’ he says his name with urgency, ‘it’s time we stopped waiting.’

Have they spent the years drifting, with their love merely preserved, ready to be fully realised? Leo examines Geri, his chiselled flawlessness, his suave approach to rekindling what they’ve only managed glimpses of throughout the years (those distant adolescent fumbles, and passionate nights after major wins). He can almost feel the tension in Geri’s lean, muscled body as he waits for Leo’s verdict: do they carry on and risk the chance of emotionally wounding one another, or let this fall back to nothingness, back to the pages of ancient books?

A line forms between Leo’s brows.

‘Have we been waiting all this time?’ He pushes against Geri’s hand and feels his beard drag across the soft skin. His eyes shut and reopen. ‘Or did we lose sight of each other?’

‘Maybe both. We’re stupid enough to do both.’

He looks up at Geri, and for once it is indubitable; he knows on this they can agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistakes in Catalan are my own. The translation of Llull is a modern one, which I will admit to altering. I wrote the scene with Bartomeu prior to the Barcagate scandal, and can assure you I know nothing.
> 
> Thank you to those of you who have taken the time to leave a comment and/or kudos. It is greatly appreciated.


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